


By The Rising Tide

by ClementineStarling



Category: Skyfall (2012) - Fandom
Genre: Dom!Q, Dom/sub, F/M, M/M, Sub!Bond, domme!M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-29
Updated: 2015-11-29
Packaged: 2018-05-03 21:39:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,422
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5307776
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ClementineStarling/pseuds/ClementineStarling
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Special agents need special care.</p><p>M passes her responsibilities on to Q.</p><p>(Yes, I know, I terribly late for this - but somehow my frustration with SPECTRE had me fall back on the good stuff.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	By The Rising Tide

**Author's Note:**

> As usually [Jaq](https://archiveofourown.org/users/jaqueline_nutweasel) is to blame for this.
> 
> Title taken from [Missing You](https://aplacetoburystrangers.bandcamp.com/track/missing-you) by A Place To Bury Strangers
> 
> Originally I wanted to come up with some sort of SPECTRE-fix it, containing tentacles, horror, cybermancy and a BAMF!-technopagan-Q, but then this happened. Well, maybe next time.
> 
> Beware: sexual content.

_

She feels the slightest pang of regret upon closing the file.

Not that she would have expected otherwise. Every ending comes with a dash of melancholy. And this one above all. That's what made her put it off as long as possible - knowing it would not be easy. But few choices ever are. And after years of taking hard decisions the sensation (this faint sting to the heart, remorse, whatever you want to call it) has become almost familiar, sort of a constant companion. Something that belongs to the job just as much as sleepless nights and a certain poise.

And while to a degree it's certainly helpful to still have qualms - they serve as a corrective, make sure you think things through properly - beyond that purpose, scruples are nothing but a hindrance at best and your ruin at worst. If there is one rule to her job then this: You may not let on that you're having doubts, not even admit to the possibility of failure, otherwise they'd throw you to the wolves, discard of you without blinking an eye. In that way they're like dogs, they smell the fear on you and they won't hesitate to tear you to pieces.

But Olivia Mansfield has never been afraid of making an unpleasant choice, and she won't start with it now. Some chapters need to be closed, so you can turn over a new page. Especially when change is in the wind.

The signs are growing stronger now that the summer is drawing to a close, the evidence of upheaval gathering like a thunderstorm. Great events are foreshadowed, as they say, and she sees what is coming from miles off, a long time before they bother to tell her. It is her job after all. To know. To be prepared.

She puts the folder away, turns her attention to another personnel file on her desk.

__

“Are you sure, Ma'am?” He has not meant to say it, but apparently it _had_ to come out. Unsurprisingly the query earns him a stern look.  
“I mean, aren't there more suitable candidates?” he tries to gloss it over.

"Aren't there older men waiting for a promotion you mean?” As usually M comes straight to the point. No need for her to sugarcoat it. It's not who she is, not how she became head of MI6.

Q, the newly appointed Q, nods his head, trying not to bite his lip. He feels terribly nervous. Quartermaster at 31, that's unheard of. When he came here, he was more concerned about being fired for one of his more daring projects or disrespectful suggestions. There are quite a few to choose from.

M looks at him with a slightly softening expression. “You may be well aware that I have run this organisation for almost two decades now, during which technology has evolved at breath-taking speed. I don't need another dinosaur, dabbling at computers, I need someone who is up to the mark. Someone with the skills and knowledge to keep Q branch abreast of the times. My only question in this regard is: Can you do it?”

If there is anything, Q does not doubt, it's his gift with technology.

“Yes, Ma'am. I think I can.”

“Marvellous.” She gives him an almost-smile, then turns her attention to a file on her desk. For a split second Q wonders, whether he's dismissed, but then she speaks again. “There is something else I must ask of you.”

“Of course.”

She holds up her hand. “Don't be so quick to agree. Hear me out first.” She hands him the file. It looks standard issue. Manila cover, paper clip. Q opens it. First thing he sees is a face. Handsome in a rather brutal way. Cropped blond hair revealing wrestler's ears. Piercing blue eyes. He looks like a thug. Next to the photograph is the number: 007.

“You might be already familiar with our infamous top agent, Q. I believe no other employee is so often cited as an example in classes and meetings, good _and_ bad. Now, his remarkable success comes, as you will be aware, at a rather steep price. But I am not only talking about lost equipment, destruction and mayhem – James' job means that he is under quite a bit of stress. Unimaginable pressure. The responsibility, the physical exertion, the constant risk of one's own life – it is a lot to endure. And we try to help of course, and be it just out of self-interest.”

She looks at him intently, and Q feels obliged to nod, to show he is still listening. And he is, the file lies forgotten in his lap.

“Now, every agent is different,” M goes on, “and with Bond it turned out, what he really needs to unwind is a little unorthodox, even by our standards.”

Q blinks. Considers possible meanings. In his head a list of memorised examples reels off. Fast. Q is smart, his CPU performance is excellent. It takes only a second. One possibility stands out.

“Oh.”

This time M smiles at him. “I've read your file, Q, I did the maths. And I reckon you are the most suitable candidate for this task.”

“I--”

“Just let me finish. You don't have to decide now. Go through the file. See what would be expected of you. Think about. Let me know when you made up your mind.” There is a certain fondness to her voice, but also her usual determination, an edge, that reminds him, that part of their conversation is still about her giving orders.

“Yes, Ma'am.”

“Very good, Q. That would be all for today. You will assume your new post as quartermaster on Monday.”

__

First thing Q does when he comes home that night – before turning on the computer, before scratching the cats between the ears even – is pouring himself a drink. Contrary to his usual habits, one might add. Q is not much of a drinker. Especially not on week-nights.

But now he needs something to ease the nerves. He downs the first glass, pours himself another one, before slumping on the living room sofa. HP and Ada get over their attitude for once – bless them – and drape themselves over him, purring affectionately.

It takes a couple of minutes of pure cat comfort and the alcohol trickling into his system, before Q's brain goes out of overload mode and resumes working properly again. He tries to bring some order into the mess of this mind.

The promotion would be cause for celebration. It's essentially what he's been working for all along. He just would not have thought to get there so soon. And he's not a shred of doubt about him being up for the job. The other thing though... 

He angles for his bag and takes out the file.

The manila is rough under his finger tips.

He takes a deep breath, then opens the file, removes the paper clip.

The first page is inconspicuous. Name. Date of birth. The usual information. The most interesting detail about it is that it's been written with a typewriter. An electronic one but still. A bloody typewriter.

Q turns the page. This at least has been printed already. With a wire printer nonetheless. Something about the old-fashionedness of it all takes the edge off a bit. Cats, booze, quaintness. An infallible formula against nerves. The second page, it turns out, is a report on an encounter in the mid nineties. Written in words that are very precise, matter of fact. Though what they describe makes Q the tiniest bit queasy and _extraordinarily_ glad he did not read them in front of M.

He skims through the text, turns another page. Soon he is captured by the documents which present the strangest mix between sober reports, confessions of the agent, self-reflection of the handler. It's half diary, half psychiatrist's notes.

Some words, some phrases stick out. Cues. His brain underlines them in vivid marker pen colour, files them away for later use.

Collar.

“ _I would not have thought it possible to be so intrigued by this.”_

Submission.

“ _He makes me so proud when he wants to please me.”_

Discipline.

“ _I find myself admiring the marks I leave upon him.”_

Denial.

“ _It is incredibly arousing to have him beg for mercy.”_

There are photos, too. Not many but enough to make Q's mouth go dry. Mostly they're only partial shots, almost artsy. Bruises like an impressionist painting. Streaks of cum on a toned torso. Reddened welts on a broad back. Pink blooming hand prints on shapely buttocks. And perhaps most enticing – a black leather collar around a brawny neck, thick cords of muscle straining against the constriction.

Q finds his fingers touching his lips in an involuntary gesture of awe. His skin is hot and too tight of a sudden, the numb sensation of arousal coiling at the base of his spine. He snaps the file shut, grabs for the drink, finishes it in one gulp, decides it is time to take a shower.

__

It is odd how people on principle fail to perceive themselves as just like everybody else, only another human being, no exception to the rule. How they always think they're special. It is a matter of self-preservation of course, and Q should have been too smart to fall for it, but apparently, he's got the same blind spot. Not even special in _that_ regard.

During his time working for MI6 he has seen a lot of personnel files. It is basically what you need to do your job as a handler. You must know your agent by heart, every strength, every weakness, every kink so to speak. And yet somehow it never occurred to him, that his file might have notes on the same dirty details, his own shameful secrets. Sure, he underwent several psych tests before getting the job, interviews with shrinks, but he was never to become a field agent, so he did not think certain facts (his sexual preferences, history, experience) of any matter to them. Now obviously, he has been dead wrong about that.

They know and, for the time being, he has to assume all of it. Not only that he's gay, well, that's not much of a secret. But also that in his mid to late 20s he's been quite active in BDSM circles for a while, dabbling at games of dominance and submission, having successful men in their 30s and 40s, lawyers, doctors, politicians, businessmen, begging for all kinds of things: punishment, humiliation, orgasm.

If he can believe M's accounts of her own experiences before her involvement with Bond, he is much better suited for the task.

Still, an agent of Bond's calibre, that's an entirely different matter – an entirely different level of exciting, some part of his brain corrects himself.

That's when he knows he'll say yes.

__

“I want to meet him first.”

There is a short silence on the other side of the line that could be anything. A smile. A frown. Disappointment. Approval.

“Naturally.” M's voice gives nothing away. “Anything else you want to ask?”

“No, Ma'am, I don't think so. Your documentation was very comprehensive.”

“I'm glad to hear it.”

Q wonders if he imagines a certain iciness, past M's usual severity that is. He cannot imagine how she must feel about giving away her beloved pet? Sad? Relieved? Both?

“Perhaps there is one thing, if it's not too much to ask... It would be very helpful, if you were to guide me through the transition process, act as my supervisor.”

He can hear her smile through the telephone.

“It would be my pleasure, Q.”

__

Winter is upon them in a wink. The constant rain a tear-drop curtain against the windowpanes. Never before has she felt so weary. The cold seems to have settled in her bones, and yet, despite all the numbness, she still experiences this faint sting when she repeats the words:

“Take the bloody shot.”

She does not hesitate though. Empathy is a luxury she cannot allow herself. Least of all while silence on the other side of the line is stretching towards eternity.

And so she feels nothing.

But afterwards, as she is staring out into the world, blindly, sight blurred by rain or by tears, she does not mind which, she can't help the thought creeping back into her mind: Perhaps Bond was already too much of a closed file to her to still care.

It would not have been the first time.

__

When she finds him in her living room a couple of days after the attack, she is only mildly surprised.

Firstly, because she is convinced that, if cockroaches were able to survive an atomic war, so would be Bond. She even wonders how she could have believed for a second, he'd be dead.

And secondly, because a good dog always finds his way home. And that's what he is after all, isn't he?

She should not feel relieved though. Not so much at least.

__

Q, on the other hand, is a lot more astounded to be informed of the resurrection of his charge, though not hesitant to agree on a first meeting. Strictly business. National Gallery. In front of Turner's _The Fighting Temeraire_ – what an irony.

Bond is not what he expected. Or at least not entirely. Sure, he is a brute. Intimidating. A stone cold killer. But--  
But also witty. Charming to a degree. Their conversation just enough of a banter to make it interesting.

He's barely out of sight when Q sends M his answer: _I'll do it._

__

It's not that she asks herself, how she could have become so addicted to this, having him naked on his knees, rutting against her leg, half strangling himself by straining against his collar, her gorgeous, loyal bulldog. It is really quite obvious. The power of it is intoxicating.

It's more like she wonders, how she'll be able to do without it. But there is no way around it anymore, it has gone on long enough.

She tells him of her decision afterwards, when he nuzzles his face against her thigh, sated, content, such a good boy, and she strokes his sweaty blond hair affectionately. It's startlingly soft, indeed a bit like fur.

“James,” she says, and he looks up at her, his expression so unguarded, so full of admiration, her stone heart threatens to crumble after all. She strokes his cheekbone, the sandpaper-stubble on this jaw. “You know how much you please me, do you?”

He nods, leans into her palm, kisses her fingers, just how she likes it. He won't be making this any easier.

“Now, as things are, I may not be available for these sessions for much longer.”

The look he gives her is as much terrified as it is terrifying.

“Oh, don't you worry, I'm quite alright” - she feels him sag with relief against her hand - “It's only... I fear my days as M are numbered, and--”, she places a finger on his lips to prevent him from speaking, then grasps his jaw in her right hand, “as things are, the person to take care of you must be someone inside the department.”

This time she detects an uncharacteristic edge to him, a setting of the jaw he does not usually wear during their play dates. Perhaps her faithful dog will bite her after all. She straightens herself, increases the pressure of her fingers around his face. Show no fear, she knows the drill, it runs in her very blood.

“I intend to give you to a new master,” she says, more determined. She feels the struggle inside her pet, a protest rising in his throat. “Hush. Let me finish,” she says, yanking at his collar with her free hand. He yelps, freezes. There is still defiance in him, a tension to his muscle, though he controls himself for the moment. Beautiful. The perfect opportunity for one last lesson in obedience.

“I _will_ give you away, you have no say in that, boy”, she tightens her grip, “but you are of course allowed to decline my choice. Though I would seriously recommend considering it thoroughly. As you know I have always your best interests at heart and I have picked the candidate very, very carefully. Do you understand?”

He stares. Nods. Barely perceivable. Oh sweet resistance.

She slaps him, hard.  
“Answer me properly, boy.”

There's a dangerous glint in his eyes, a moment's hesitance, but then he obeys. “Yes, Mistress,” he says, ducking his head in compliance, “I understand.” His voice is rough, emotional. She'll have to do something about it.

“Now bring me my whip, James, I think you need some reminding of your training.”

Bond kisses her hand before he rises, and when he does, she sees that he is already half-hard again. Such a good boy. She really has no idea as how to live without this.

__

It turns out she never has to.

__

Bond on the other hand, he has to adapt, and somehow learn to bear the feeling of utter loneliness, a cold that stretches vast and bleak like a winter sky inside him, impossible to be kept at bay by the warmth that can be found in a bottle of Scotch.

She has not left him without making arrangements. One last assignment. One last letter. He tries to drown himself in the former. Tries not to dream of the latter. He's not ready for the final goodbye. He's afraid it will make the last remains of control crumble. She taught him how to stay in one piece, even when he was utterly broken, her arms the embrace that held him together and now, without her, how can he be whole?

Then one day, a parcel arrives, his address written in her hand, and he does not even think before ripping it open, and his heart almost stops when he sees the content. It's his collar.

A sight that catches like fingers in the cracks of his shattered self, prising him open. It hurts so much, he feels like bursting, and yet he cannot refrain from touching it. Reverently. Breath caught in his lungs.

The leather is ice cold. Just like his hands. Just like the weather outside. _Just like her, lying in the ground._ A sob swells inside his chest, sits like a stopper in his throat, he cannot...

There is a note and his fingers shake so badly, he almost tears it before he manages to unfold it. 

_Precious boy_ , it says.  
_I trust it is time to present your collar to your new Master._  
_Make me proud._  
_M._

Something snaps inside him then. He does not know whether it is the last shred of sanity that finally tears or his heart bursting or his soul falling apart like brittle stone. The emptiness surges, a tidal wave of grief, that makes the dam break.

Almost two thirds of a human being consists of water, he thinks. Not so much ashes and dust but water and salt. It's like we're condensed pieces of ocean, held together by flimsy tissue and fragile bone, just waiting to be cracked open and poured back into the sea.

He wishes he could at least shed his tears over her grave.

__

The visitor comes several hours later, in the early hours of the evening.

Bond answers the door with the usual demeanour of a grumpy lion, roused prematurely from his doze, left hand on the door handle, the right curled around his Walther PPK.

“Q?” Anyone else he'd sent away (apart from Moneypenny perhaps), but somehow he's pleasantly surprised to see his quartermaster's wild mop of hair, the generous curve of his mouth curled into a smile. He pushes the door open, waves the gun hand to invite the him in.

Q raises an eyebrow at the sight of the gun but says nothing, instead steps inside and shuts the door behind him.

“To what do I owe the pleasure?” Bond lets himself fall back onto the sofa, points the barrel of his gun towards an armchair, before he puts it down onto the coffee table, metal chinking on glass.

“I brought you dinner,” Q says and puts a bag next to the gun, then he turns around. “Don't you want to offer me a drink.” It's not a question. Which somehow catches Bond off guard.

“Of course.” He jumps to his feet again and fetches two glasses and a fresh bottle. When he comes back, Q is still standing where he left him. There is something peculiar about this. Something, Bond can't quite put his finger on. Perhaps his posture, perhaps his clothes? Q's amazingly well dressed for a house call, Bond notices. The light beige shirt is impeccable, the tie an excellent choice, his slim trousers perfectly cut. Not at all the somewhat scruffy computer genius he remembers.

Q accepts the drink graciously, like a due offering, his gaze strangely intense, as if sizing him up.

“I was notified that you received M's parcel today,” he says.

The words, although spoken softly, are worse than a punch to the stomach. Bond's knees almost buckle. A fact that, despite his best efforts, isn't lost on Q. “Why don't you sit down?” he suggests gently and takes the glass from Bond's hand, presses him down to the sofa with just the slightest touch on his shoulder, then sits down beside him, hands him back his glass. It feels oddly comfortable. Oddly familiar.

“You?” Bond asks weakly. Any other time he would have found the idea ridiculous, but at this very moment he has no more strength left for discussions.

“Me,” Q confirms.

“I'd thought...”

Q looks at him quizzically; it takes only a moment until he's figured it out, his features light up with amusement. “You thought she'd picked Mallory?!”

Bond nods, somewhat gravely.

“He sure looks the part,” Q agrees. “Don't think he'd be much into such things though.”

“It also explains why he never seemed to get any of my insinuations. Not even when I was rather suggestive,” Bond says, the shadow of a smirk ghosting over his face. “Poor guy.” He laughs and it sounds only half bitter.

They sit in silence for a while.

“You don't have to consent to this,” Q says after what seems to have been several minutes. “M asked me to take over when she appointed me as quartermaster and I agreed to give it a try after I'd met you. It was never meant to be like this.”

Bond only stares in to the void before him. “Did she tell you what it was all about. Leave you instructions.” His voice sounds hollow.

“Yes. Yes she did.”

“Okay.” Bond rasps the word out as if coughing up a bit of his soul.

“Okay?”

Somewhat that almost looks like a tremble goes through Bond before he answers.  
“I want to give it a try, Sir.”

Q's smile is like sunshine. “Good boy,” he says.

__

They start slow.

Bond kneels, somewhat unceremoniously in his sweatpants and worn jumper, but dedicated to make a good first impression nonetheless ( _make me proud_ , he has not forgotten her words), eyes downcast, head lowered.

Q begins by stroking his hair, a soft, soothing touch, takes his time before his fingers trail lightly down Bond's cheek, acquainting themselves with the harsh lines of Bond's face, the sharp stubble. The sheer tenderness of it lets Bond shudder with pent up emotion.

“It's all right now,” Q murmurs and he feels Bond still under his hand, his breathing comes calmer now, even. “That's it,” he says when most of the tension has faded from Bond's muscles and he leans into Q's palm with abandon. Presses his lips against his hand, chaste at first, then, when Q allows it, more passionate, open-mouthed kisses, small reverent licks, a hungry drag of his lips.

Reading about it, Q imagined of course how it would be to have Bond on his knees, but the reality of it is so much better. It's not only the intoxicating sensation of having someone so deadly submit to his command, there is something more specific about it, more intimate than he has anticipated. A warm affectionate feeling, a strange fondness towards this man, the actual joy of giving him this and the pride of him being so well trained, it's all intermingling into a potent cocktail of pleasure, while at the same time it feels so natural, as if they'd been doing this for years.

He decides, somewhat spontaneously, to feed Bond the dinner he brought, small pieces of beef tenderloin steak, fresh green beans with onions and balsamic vinegar, sweet potato mash – and it's wonderfully gratifying to have the food licked from his fingers.

He can hardly wait until they're done and Bond has meticulously cleaned Q's hand with his tongue and sits back on his heels, looks at him, flushed and gorgeous and a bit breathless. Because it is then, that Q finally leans forward, the curl of his hand still gentle against Bond's jaw and captures Bond's mouth in a first kiss, a kiss that is all tender and sweet and loving, though no less possessive for it.

__

Later, when Bond lies sprawled out on his bed, fast asleep, and Q sits next to him on the bed, only wearing Bond's baggy jumper, basking in his rich, masculine scent, he takes out the manila folder, turns over a fresh page and begins to scribble.

Sober notes on the eagerness Bond showed in pleasuring him orally that tell nothing of the hungry noises that escaped him while sucking his cock.

Impartial descriptions of the number of times, Q brought him to the edge of orgasm, before finally allowing him to come, that skip out on the desperate moans and needy whimpers and wanton pleas, that don't mention the twitches of muscle, the small jolts of pleasure running through Bond's powerful body or the way he went all rigid through orgasm, taut, strung out in this one last moment of tension.

A laconic conclusion about the success of the session that does not manage at all to capture the scope of Bond's gratitude. Nor his own satisfaction. And least of all his bone-deep contentment when he finally snaps the file shut and crawls under the blanket to fall asleep with his hand placed upon the collar around Bond's brawny neck in a proud gesture of ownership.

_


End file.
